Claimed
by adaptation
Summary: Derek and Stiles don't have a lot of choices. They're on a time limit. If Derek wants to get close enough to the Alpha Pack to get what he needs to take them down, he has to gain their trust. And to gain their trust, he has to have sex with Stiles Stilinski. WARNING: mildly dubious consent, underage sex, canon-typical violence
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

"We might as well just get it over with," Derek says, sounding notably unenthusiastic as his hands move to the buckle of his belt. Stiles actually gapes at him for long enough that he gets halfway through pulling the leather through the loops of his pants before the thought occurs to him that he should, maybe, stop Derek?

"No, no, no," he rushes, reaching his hands out and flapping them as though that will make Derek stop undressing. Derek arches an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and he elects to ignore it. "I'm not— No, Derek, you are not popping my cherry in your charred-out Hitchcock house."

"Hitchcock house?" he repeats. His tone is flat, and there's a dangerous glare that flashes in his eyes, but Stiles counts it as a win anyway because it makes his hands still.

"You know, it looks like the house from —" He shakes his head, hoping to clear out the errant thoughts that are distracting him from the very important problem at hand. "Never mind. The point stands. If I have to have sex with you, it's not going to be in the House That Jack the Ripper Built."

"We don't have a lot of choices here, Stiles," he counters, and Stiles's mouth tightens at Derek's palpable frustration. "We're on a bit of a time limit, you know."

"Yeah, I know, you have to ~claim me." He throws in an exaggerated wiggle just to punctuate how ridiculous he finds werewolf culture. It's juvenile, but he feels a thrill of satisfaction shoot through him at the way Derek's jaw clenches. "Can I have, like, a minute to get used to the idea? I didn't exactly roll out of bed this morning expecting Derek Hale to need to fuck me."

Derek is silent, staring him down with his I'm Very Intimidating face, as though that's going to make Stiles drop his pants and bend over. It's irrelevant that Stiles vividly imagined doing just that while jerking off in the shower the other day.

After a long, tense moment, Derek huffs and starts to re-buckle his belt. "Fine. Tonight then."

Yeah. Tonight, Derek takes Stiles's virginity. Whether he likes it or not.


	2. Chapter 2

_twenty-four hours earlier_

DEREK WAS EXPECTING the Alpha pack to contact him.

He wasn't expecting it to be through Erica Reyes.

She smells different. Like damp stone and blood. There are hints of fear, sour and tangy, and anger, thick and spicy. There's a little of something else in there too.

Boyd. She smells like Boyd.

He stares at his runaway beta, waiting for an explanation. She's out of breath and her cheeks are splotchy with exertion. Given the enhanced stamina and athleticism she's gained since becoming a werewolf, it's surprising. He can't help but wonder how fast she'd been running to actually tire herself out. After a good thirty seconds of waiting for her to catch her breath, he rolls his eyes and passes her a bottle of water from the mini-fridge he'd plugged into the living room wall. Only after she's drained it does Erica say anything to him.

"Hey, boss man," she offers with an attempt at a cheeky grin.

"What happened?" He's not in the mood for her games.

Who's he kidding? He's _never_ in the mood for her games.

"Me and Boyd, we were running..." He already knows that part. They'd fled days ago, before Gerard... "The Argents caught us, but Allison's dad let us go. We were almost through the woods, and then this pack of Alphas came out of nowhere, and —"

Derek's whole body tenses and he crowds into Erica's space, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a shake before he can stop himself. "You were with the Alpha pack? This whole time?"

"Yeah, they... I think they wanted to make us weaker first, they wouldn't let us eat much, and —"

"Where's Boyd?" he interrupts. He shakes her again when he asks — doesn't mean to, but it happens. By now, Erica's regained some of her vigor, and she throws his hands off her.

"The Alphas still have him."

Fuck.

But Erica couldn't have escaped on her own. Not when she was undernourished, not from a pack of Alphas.

"They let you go." It's a statement, not a question. She nods anyway. "Why?"

"They wanted me to give you a message." He doesn't offer any response, other than the tightening in his jaw, so she continues. "I'm supposed to tell you that if you join their pack, they won't kill him."

Damn it. He exhales a deep breath, head falling forward and eyes slipping closed. He doesn't want this. Doesn't want any of it. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. When he started building his pack, he'd been trying to prevent this exact situation from happening. These Alphas, they're predictable. They sense a new Alpha, and they swoop into his territory, throw their weight around, and issue ultimatums. Join us or die. Join us or we'll kill your whole pack. Join us or we'll make you wish you did.

Derek doesn't know how how he ended up here. He knows he wasn't prepared to take on the Alpha title, but he's been trying to make it work. He's been doing his best to keep Beacon Hills from getting terrorized by supernatural creatures, but none of it's been good enough. Scott won't join his pack, and half his pack lacked so much faith in his ability to keep them safe that they'd fled right into the clutches of the Alpha pack he'd been hoping to fend off. If they ripped Boyd limb from limb, it would be no one's fault but Derek's.

"You can't join them," Erica says then, like she's stating the obvious. Like she shouldn't have had to say it at all.

But it's not that simple. She's just a kid, she's barely had time to get used to her own claws. She doesn't understand the nuances of werewolf politics.

"Get out."

"What?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Go home. You have parents, don't you? I'm sure they'd love to know you're alive."

"But Boyd —"

"_Erica_," he snaps.

He's not surprised that she doesn't take it well. "No, Derek! I know you're Mr. In Charge, but you can't keep me in the dark on this. It affects all of us."

She's right. And it's not that he wants to keep her in the dark, he just needs quiet. He needs to think, to figure out a plan, and he can't do that with her staring at him.

He sighs resignedly. "I promise to call you when I know what I'm going to do. Until then, go away."

She hesitates, but he can tell before she responds that she's going to agree. He can read it in the way her posture relaxes, hear it in the way her heartbeat starts to slow to its normal pace. His brow furrows, because he's not sure it's a good sign that she's this relieved about him agreeing to keep her in the loop.

It's instinct for him to keep things to himself. He doesn't share his thoughts. Not anymore. He'd tried that, he'd lain in bed with Kate and told her all the things he thought about, even if they didn't matter. Little things, like the fact that his dad's two brothers were in town for a week, and Uncle Jack had brought his family. Like how excited Derek had been, because Jack's oldest son, Liam, was one of his best friends, and they didn't get to see each other that often. How, even though his mom was still going to make him go to school that week, he looked forward to hanging out with his cousins afterward.

He never got that chance. Kate had ordered them all burned alive not twelve hours after they'd arrived in Beacon Hills.

So no. He doesn't share his thoughts anymore.

There might be a little more plea in his expression than he wants there, but it convinces Erica to cave, so he'll live. He escorts her to the door of his burnt-out house, tells her to watch her back. She tries for a smile again, and this time actually manages it. He might have returned it, too, if his situation hadn't been so dire. As it is, he doesn't smile. He can't.

WHEN HE WAS ten, Stiles was on the Beacon Hills Little League team with Scott. He wasn't very good at it — baseball was never his thing — but he had fun anyway, because Scott was there, and his coach was a nice guy, and after his games, the sheriff and Mrs Stilinski would take him out for soft ice cream. He always got the chocolate-vanilla swirl kind, because he liked being able to pick up two different flavours on his tongue at once.

One day after practice, his coach pulled him aside and told Stiles that he'd noticed how hard he'd been working at throwing the baseball so that people could actually hit it, and so, next game, he was going to let Stiles pitch, if he wanted to. Stiles had been so excited. He'd rushed home to tell his parents and started babbling about it the minute he stepped through the front door. It had actually taken him a solid thirty seconds to realize no one was downstairs to listen.

Confused at the quiet, he'd made his way upstairs in search of his mom and dad. He'd found them in their bedroom. His mom had been laying on the bed, Dad pressed against her side. Dad had been crying, and Stiles remembered being confused because he hadn't even known Dad _could_ cry. Mom hadn't been crying, just stroking the hair back from The sheriff's forehead and murmuring consolations.

Stiles had frowned, and then, brightening, told them about how the coach was going to let him pitch next game, and they shouldn't be sad, because he would do a good job. He'd hoped the news would make his dad stop crying. It hadn't.

Stiles found out later that that had been the day his mother's cancer was diagnosed.

That was the first time Stiles exhibited excruciatingly bad timing.

About twenty-three hours after Derek ushers Erica out of his house, Stiles does it again.

"Derek," he calls, stepping into the Hale house and letting the sorry excuse for a front door swing shut behind him.

It takes a minute for Derek to appear, and when he does he looks thoroughly unenthused by Stiles's unexpected house call. "What are you doing here?" he asks sharply.

"Nice to see you, too," Stiles quips, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know, I really don't understand why you don't get more guests, if you're always this hospitable."

Derek stares. Then — "What do you want, Stiles?" He suddenly looks exhausted, and Stiles wonders when he last managed to get some sleep.

"I just... Lydia and I have been trying to figure out why she's immune to the Bite, and I found something in this book —"

"Can it wait?" Derek interrupts. He's gone stock still, jaw clenched. Stiles frowns.

"Well —"

"Stiles, you have to go. Now."

"What?" Stiles scoffs. "Why? Are you expecting company?" His tone makes clear just how ridiculous he finds that possibility. In retrospect, he figures that's probably rude of him, but that doesn't make the idea of Derek having house guests any less weird.

It's not Derek who answers him.

"Something like that."

There are five of them, four men and one woman, standing just inside the door. The one who spoke is, apparently, a twin, because the guy to his left is a carbon copy.

They aren't doing anything overly menacing, but something about them trips Stiles's internal alarm. Every one of them is standing with the same sort of authority that pervades the atmosphere around Derek, and Stiles knows instinctively that this is the Alpha pack. His pulse quickens in his throat as he looks carefully over at Derek for some kind of cue. Derek looks evenly back at him, silent, arms folded over his chest. Then his eyes flicker from Stiles down to the floor next to Derek. It's barely noticeable, takes a fraction of a second, but Stiles gets it, and he moves as slowly to Derek's side.

It had only been a week or so since Derek had told them about the Alpha pack, so Stiles hasn't had time to do a lot of research on it; he's been busy with Lydia. He quickly shuffles through the sparse information he's been able to pick up, searching his brain for anything useful.

Alpha packs aren't something that happens often, because they're such an inversion of werewolf hierarchy. Alpha wolves are programmed to lead, and trying to make a pack out of them almost invariably ends in carnage. There have only been a few notable ones throughout history, as far as Stiles was able to discern. The ones that lasted only worked because their values were so in line that they functioned almost like a cult. They showed up, indoctrinated other Alphas, and convinced them to join the pack. Then they either killed the Betas or enslaved them.

Yeah. Alpha packs keep slaves. Most of them time, they're human. Stiles feels a thick lump form in his throat at the reminder. The way the tall one in the front is staring at him doesn't make him feel any better.

"Have you made your decision?" he asks. His hands withdraw from his pockets, and his fingernails begin to elongate threateningly. Stiles feels Derek stiffen next to him.

Derek nods, just once, and then tilts his head to the side, baring his throat. The entire pack of Alphas relaxes noticeably, claws retracting. "Good," the tall one says, and Stiles thinks he must be the leader. He smiles charmingly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Good choice. It's for the best."

Derek doesn't say anything, and Stiles thinks if he's trying to get on their good side he's doing a really shit job of it.

"Is this your human?" the tall one asks Derek, but his cold, charcoal grey eyes never leave Stiles.

Stiles, quickly coming to the realization that being Derek's human is probably a lot safer than being up for grabs, blurts, "Yes."

Immediately, Derek's eyes snap back to him, wide with silent warning and a hell of a lot more _what the hell did you just do?_ than Stiles is comfortable with.

The Alpha staring at him approaches, covering a lot of ground in very few steps, a distinctly predatory gleam in his eyes. He moves right up to Stiles, and then sniffs up the column of his neck. Stiles stumbles back abruptly, holding out his hands as though that will keep him away. "Dude!" he exclaims. "Personal bubble!"

"You haven't claimed him," the Alpha says to Derek, only then turning his eyes away from Stiles. "Why?"

Wait, _claimed?_ Like... like _CLAIMED?_

Derek's jaw clenches almost imperceptibly. "Haven't gotten around to it," he says tersely.

The Alpha snorts, lip curling mirthlessly. "If you can't even claim your human, you can't be part of our pack. We don't tolerate those who can't lead."

"It'll be done," Derek promises. Tension is almost radiating off him.

"Yes," the Alpha pack's leader agrees. "It will. You have until sundown tomorrow. If you don't claim him, I will."

Before Stiles can even process the thread, the Alpha pack is gone, leaving him alone with Derek and feeling immensely uncomfortable. He turns to Derek, trying to ignore the way his skin is crawling.

"Friend of yours?" he quips, feigning chipperness.

"Deucalion," corrects Derek.

"Bless you," says Stiles.

Derek levels that _I'm so unimpressed that you exist_ look on him. "It's his name."

"What?" Stiles scoffs. "What the hell kind of name is _~Deucalion?_"

"Greek."

"... What?"

"It's from Greek mythology."

"How do you even —"

"_Stiles_."

"_Fine,_ jeeze." Stiles takes a few steps backward, feeling much better about putting some distance between them now that the Alpha pack had vacated the premises. "So you wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"No."

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" Derek asks, and the intensity vibrating in his voice makes Stiles nervous. And defensive.

"I'm fairly certain I just stopped your buddy Deucalion from making me his Real Doll."

"Yeah," Derek agrees. "_If_ I fuck you."

"Exac— wait, _what?_"

"They can smell your virginity, Stiles!" Derek is pacing now, back and forth across the floor in front of him, driving one hand back through his jet black hair. "You said you were mine, and you're a virgin, and to them that means I'm not in control. Humans are property to Alpha packs, Stiles, and if I haven't fucked you, it means I don't view you that way, that I think you're an equal. And to them that's unforgivable."

Stiles can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. "You can _smell_— Never mind. Why does this even matter? Are you trying to _join_ them?"

"Goddamnit, yes!"

"_Why?_"

"Because it's the only way to keep you idiots safe!"

There's obviously a plan in there somewhere, but when has Derek ever been the guy that shares his plans? Stiles wants to press him on it, to figure out what Derek's intending, but he's also dealing with the slightly more pressing issue of his apparent need to be claimed. Should that be a capital C? Does he need to be Claimed? He makes a mental note to Google it later, if he's not busy _fucking Derek Hale_.

"So..." he says slowly, "either we have sex, or the Alpha pack goes on a murderous rampage and decimates us all? Is that right?"

Derek nods stiffly.

Stiles curses. "So I guess we do this. I mean, what choice do we have?" He sighs, wondering, not for the first time, how this is his life. "When?"

"We might as well just get it over with," Derek says, sounding notably unenthusiastic as his hands move to the buckle of his belt.

Stiles panics a little. Because the image of Derek Hale taking off his belt isn't something he can deal with, and because he hasn't quite come to terms with this situation yet, and he needs a freaking minute to adjust, okay?

Somehow, by some miracle of the gods, Stiles manages to convince Derek to wait, to put it off until later that night, and then he leaves. He just goes. He gets in his Jeep and goes home, because he has to shower, and pull up all the pages he's ever read about anal sex and read them over again, because yeah. This is his fucking life.


End file.
